“She’s going to the Rectory. She told me, quite by chance. Oh, Rosamund,” said Frances with an awe-struck face, “it does seem as though I were meant to do this. All sorts of little things seem to have happened together, to make it possible. You know Cousin Bertie never goes away as a rule—I might have had to wait for months for this opportunity, and yet it’s happened now—just the very time that Mère Pauline wrote to say she would receive me in the novitiate. It’s all too wonderful.”
“Do you mean to say you’re really happy about it all?”
“Yes, oh yes! If only it wasn’t for the leaving of you.”
Rosamund marvelled miserably.
It seemed to her that the evening went by in a dream.
She could not believe that it was Frances’ last night at Porthlew.
But even if she came back, it would be only after an experience that would stretch like a gulf between all that had been before and all that might come after. She went to Frances’ room and they packed her box, locking the bedroom door carefully, and Rosamund wrote out a label and affixed it to the small trunk.
“I’ll put the things in the attaché case to-morrow morning,” said Frances, looking rather wistfully round the room. “It seems so funny to be leaving all my frocks behind. I wish you could wear them, Rosamund, but you’re too tall.”
“You aren’t leaving them for good. You’ll want them when you come out,” cried Rosamund, and hurried on lest Frances should contradict her: “You’ll remember that you’ve promised—promised—to come away if you find you’ve made a mistake.”
“Yes,” said Frances faithfully. “I’ll remember.”